Amish with a side of Black-Eyed Peas, and a nice Chianti

We went to dinner tonight at a restaurant that has special significance to us--It's an Italian restaurant where we went on our first date. It's in a bad part of town now, and a 20-mile drive away, but it is my daughter's 2nd birthday so we decided it would be a special treat to celebrate it there--we haven't been there in several years.

Fran has this really crazy habit of deciding that a certain way is not just the fastest way to get someplace, but that it is the absolute correct way to get there. That was what I was up against tonight. For some reason, she hates the road that goes right through the middle of town--I guess it's just too convenient--so she forced me at gunpoint...well, really she just lectured me until I just gave in. So, instead of driving 20 miles down main street, we drove 10 miles down a different street to the highway, where we drove 10 more miles to a different highway, then five more miles to the exit.

She was listening to "Where is the Love?" by the Black Eyed Peas on a CD, and I decided to entertain her with my ultra-low-pitched and 1/2 beat-behind Lurch (from the Adams Family) version of the song, which I thought was comedic genius, but she apparently hasn't developed the palate to appreciate yet.

"You've ruined the whole song, now." And turned off the radio.

"Hey, that's the way we used to do that song back when I was in the group. Then Fergie had that peeing accident onstage and I couldn't hang with that anymore..." Silence.

So, we had lots of time to talk.

Not sure why, but our talk turned a little catty when I changed the subject:

"You know the xxx couple?"

"The ones who look Amish?"

"They ARE Amish!" (they really aren't, but they look Amish--the guy has an Amish-style beard at the bottom of his throat but not on the sides, and the woman doesn't wear any makeup---they have that old-fashioned look from the 1700's--don't know how else to describe it). It may be funnier to note that there are, exactly, zero Amish people in a 200-mile radius from here.

"Yeah, can you believe it--that guy is the grandson of Eli Whitney!"

"Well, they're having a barn-raising this weekend" (not really, they need help with some sort of building project at their house)..."They would have probably finished it last week if they tried using power tools instead of that Wood-auger thing" (I glanced around to make sure there wasn't any traffic, then braced one hand on the steering wheel and moved the other in a circle behind it like that old-fashioned hand-drill thing).

"This weekend's no good for you. Plus, they may not allow you to wear clothes with zippers and buttons at their house--you may have to go to hooks and eyes or pegs or something"

"I want to go help them so I can drink sasparilla--I've never had that before."

"You can't help with the barn raising--tell Hezekiah (not his name) that you can't come this time--although I guess he probably won't get the Email from you."

"Nope--he's still working on whittling his wooden computer."

Anyway, we got to the restaurant, and I realized why we hadn't been there in four years--Fran had borrowed some empty chianti bottles for table decorations at an Italian dinner she hosted, and we never took them back. The owner is an old man and has known us for a long time--that was his only request when we borrowed them from him--that we bring them back afterward. Fran had used them for candle-holders, and they got coated with wax, so we couldn't return them. After a couple of years of looking at them in my garage, I threw them out and vowed never to go back to the restaurant so I wouldn't have to face the old man. Now, as we walked up to the door I got this terrible feeling. I have this wicked memory which makes me so self-conscious about stuff like this after everyone else has long forgotten it all...

The old man was behind the front desk when we walked in. He looked up, puzzled. It took him a minute, but he finally recognized us and smiled broadly. He was so visibly older now that it made me sad to see him. He looked tired.

In my mind, the scene played out like this: (The old man stood up, put his hands on his hips, and demanded to know why the hell we never returned his chianti bottles. Then proceeds to kick us out of the restaurant.)

After we were seated, I mentioned the bottles to Fran and she laughed at me, deeply, for a solid minute while others in the restaurant, including our two bewildered children, looked at her. I sat there, sheepishly grinning and realizing that my neurotic behavior is still alive and kicking...

She said, "You know, you're the only person who thinks like you. I can't believe you remembered that."